Free Bird
by Tijuana Pirate
Summary: Turk mission, Reno pov. 'The first problem I see with this is that she's a good person. I've never liked killing good people.' Rated for language and violence.


**Author's Notes**: I wrote this story in the back of my car, driving home from Kingston, listening to Jack Johnson and the Watchmen. It's my newest attempt at a Reno pov.

I rated this story for violence and language. Consider yourselves warned.

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Free Bird

The first problem I see with this is that she's a good person. I've never liked killing good people.

I was surprised when I first saw her. She was a rare jewel in the slums. She'd tie her honey-gold hair back with a little green ribbon and liked to wear sundresses with flip-flops wherever she went. Her cheeks were a storybook pink and she had wide, innocent green eyes. A beauty, like I said.

Maybe you think that I'm being sentimental here and you're probably right. Like I said, I've never liked killing good people.

I've been watching her for a couple of days now. I've been to the shitty run-down slums school where she teaches. I've seen her kiss her boyfriend after work and watched her carry her landlady's groceries home for her. I've seen her smile and hand out change that she can't spare to the homeless men she passes in the street and bandage her students when they scrape their knees. It's impossible to escape; she is, honestly, just a good person.

I don't really know why Shinra wants her dead. I've been trying to figure that out this entire time. Sometimes they'll let us in on their reasoning but usually it's just a name, a face, and a date.

Her name is Shelley Friedman, by the way.

Maybe that's why I'm delaying this. I would love to catch her extorting money or planning some kind of an attack against the company but there's nothing. I've learnt that she likes to hum when she's cooking, looks after her neighbour's fish when he's away on business, and cries during sappy movies but I have no idea why she has to die. For all I know, she bumped into Scarlett in the street one day.

It's not necessarily a problem but I'd like to know. I'm waiting to find twelve dead children in her freezer or something. That would be nice.

Look, I never claimed to be a good guy, okay? I kill people for a living. I know six hundred and fifty-five different ways to kill a man and it seems like I invent new ones all the time. Last time it was shoving my target into his own meat processing plant's central grinder. Yeah, it was messy.

But that doesn't mean that I like this part of my job! I'd have to be one sick fuck to enjoying offing little Mary Sues who go to church every Sunday. I'm a Turk, not a serial killer.

Honestly, most of the people I take care of are fucking slime anyways. They're either rats or slumlords or dealers or any other kind of scum you can imagine. Every once in a while though…

Did I mention that she buried a bird that flew into her kitchen window in the little pathetic plot that she calls her backyard 'garden'? And that she said a little prayer for it too? Gods, she's so fucking innocent. Why do they want her dead? Last time I had to do something like this… gods.

I can't delay any longer. Bad shit happens to Turks that don't carry through with their missions. Ever heard of Vincent Valentine? My point exactly.

I'll do it tonight. She'll be home at 8:15.

_o.o.o.o_

It's so fucking easy that I could almost scream with frustration. She walks in and tosses her keys on the counter the way she always does. She fumbles around for the light switch behind her. She turns and when the lights come on she finally notices me standing silently in her kitchen corner. Those beautiful green eyes open wide and her mouth makes a little surprised 'o'.

Snap. One quiet little pop and the back of her head explodes. The force of it slams her body back against the wall. The blood splashes against those perfect white kitchen walls. Her body crumples with no strength left to support it. She slides down against the wall to lie in a heap, blood pooling slowly on the floor.

I unscrew the silencer on my gun and tuck it back into my jacket. I walk over to what was Shelly Friedman and stand above her for a moment. The hole in her head was a clean shot. A little trail of blood is trickling down from her forehead to her cheek. It almost looks like she's crying.

You must think I'm some kind of a monster. Maybe you're right. I sure don't _feel_ anything looking down on what used to be a good person. I didn't want her to die. Maybe I kinda wished I were lying there instead of her. It sure as Hell would've been better for everyone involved if she had lived and I had died. All those kids won't have a teacher tomorrow.

But there's nothing I can _do_ about it now, ya see. She died and I didn't. Why bother _feeling_ anything about it?

I nudge her corpse once to make sure she really is dead, as if there really could be any doubt. For some reason, I can't help but think about that little bird buried in her garden. I feel like I should say something for her but all the words died in me a long time ago.

I look at her a little while longer before turning away. There's really nothing to say. I walk out of the kitchen and flick the light switch off as I go. Out of respect maybe, who knows.

I head down her small hallway to reach her main entry. I pause at the door and turn to face the kitchen again. The house is dark but I almost feel as though _something_ is watching me.

"Goodnight Shelley," I say to the dark. I walk out of the empty house and pull the door shut behind me.

Two blocks away, in an empty alleyway, I flip out my PHS and say two words. Mission Complete. It's time for me to go home.

… We're all dieing, that's what I think. Day by day, minute by minute, we die a little every day. Sometimes it just happens at all once, that's all. One day it'll catch up to me too. It's just a matter of time.


End file.
